Decade

Ten years gone. It was my first winter in the north. I’d never seen so much snow. My hair was a bob, my teeth were a mess, I talked too much and read often.

Today, the sky is the same crumpled faded grey it was there, the snow unsullied beneath it, dusting trees, piled on bushes, covering the dead grass like a shawl, soft and white. It’s a rather unusual sight in Tennessee, even in winter. We drove over wet highways and the signs flicked past: Shoney’s, Grand Ole Opry, Tennessee and Alabama Fireworks. I didn’t see those, though. In my mind they were Foxwoods, Mohegan, Mystic Aquarium.

The snow along the roads made it like we were somewhere else. New York, Massachusetts, anywhere I-95 North snaked, gritty with dirt and salt and sand in the winter months. Years ago, I would have been there. Now I am here, trying to forget why we drove east to begin with, because I hate goodbyes.

The trees skimmed past. The distant, snow-topped hills looked better, their scrawny trees made picturesque by the smattering of white. The grey all around, the sky and ground blending together in the distance, the grime coating the car and windows—it was all familiar, all a reminder. I wondered where I’d be this time next year. If it would look the same as this, covered in snow.

I like the cold. The wind knifed through me. The snow stuck on my eyelashes and in my hair and sprinkled my coat like powdered sugar. I danced around mush puddles and got my jeans wet anyway. My feet were numb. But the winter suits me. My eyes burned, nothing to do with the weather. I leaned into the wind and squinted my eyes. I feel sharper in the cold, like I’m more awake despite the numbness in my toes, fingers, nose. But I miss my boots. My feet felt leaden.

We turned pink from the cold, shivered and walked quicker to get away from it.

We held hands a final time in those too-warm halls, the stifling radiator heat I remember, and the smiles were meant to be reassuring but I knew mine was still sad and stiff anyway. I didn’t want to speak. My throat was tight.

The hugs were tight. Your gaze lingered on mine through the glass door, through the car window. I nodded once. I always do: Go on, it’s okay.

On the way home, the snow darkened as the sky turned blue, but it glowed even in the darkness. I watched out the window and wondered where I wished I was.